But standing there at the counter, I couldn’t help but undress Cora with my eyes. I knew she was wearing a black pushup bra. I wondered if her panties were black. Maybe she was wearing a thong. Maybe her pussy was wet. I breathed in, and I tried to smell her. If I could have, I would have come around the counter, pulled down her jeans, and put it to her right there on the spot. Like I said, it’d been a long, long time since I enjoyed the affection of a beautiful woman, and I could bet it showed on my face.
She proceeded to run my card while I heard the sound of Sonny setting up a place for me at the bar. She grinned at me while she ran the card through the machine, not once but twice, and then a third time. After the third try, she shook her head and frowned.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kingsley,” she said. “But I’m afraid your card is being declined. Do you have another one I can try?”
I felt a start in my heart and a wave of ice cold washed up and down my back. It never dawned on me that my credit card might not work any longer. Leslie had access to the card. Had she maxed it out while I was in prison? A definite possibility if not a probability.
“There must be some mistake, Cora,” I said, just to make myself look like the victim.
She tried it one more time. Same result.
“No,” she said. “Definitely declined.” Handing me back the card. “Do you happen to have any cash?”
I grinned, but not happily. Digging into my jeans pocket, I pulled out what was left of my cash. About one hundred sixty bucks.
“That’s all I’ve got to my name, I’m sorry to say.”
“I don’t want to take your last bit of cash,” Cora said.
“I’m hoping to make more very soon,” I said. “I had no idea about my credit card, or I wouldn’t have made the reservation in the first place.” I shook my head in embarrassment. “I feel like such a dope.”
“Maybe you can call your bank and see if they’ll extend you more credit,” Cora offered.
But it was all useless. The realization had sunk in pretty fast. There was no mistake, and no banker in their right mind was going to offer me, an ex-con with no job, any credit. Why? Because not only had my wife maxed the card out, I could bet she hadn’t paid the monthly bill in forever either. Now she was gone.
“Soup’s on,” Sonny called from the tavern.
I was grateful for the distraction.
“Tell you what, Mr. Kingsley,” Cora said. “Why don’t you grab some lunch and we’ll figure something out later.”
“You’re sure, Cora?” I said.
“I’m quite sure,” she said, coming around the counter.
“Will you be joining me for lunch?” I asked hopefully.
“I already ate,” she said. “But I can sit with you if you like.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s pretty quiet around here this time of year, and it’s about beer o’clock after all.”
“You start early up here,” I said.
“Are you kidding,” she said, touching my forearm gently with her fingertips. “It’s getting late.”
4
I sat on a stool inside the tavern. Cora sat on the stool to my right, and Sonny stood across from me behind the bar. He was still wearing his stained apron. He’d served me a bowl of homemade venison stew that came from a buck he claimed to have shot near the lake last fall. He pointed to the deer head mounted above the fireplace. It was an eight pointer. I wasn’t much of a deer hunter, but it looked like a fine trophy to me.
I dug into the stew. It was piping hot and delicious. It had been served with some homemade cornbread and a tall draft beer in a frosty mug. I’d forgotten that food could taste so good, and I attacked it with vigor.
Sonny poured himself a beer. He drained half the mug with his first swig.
“When was the last time you ate, Mr. Kingsley?” he asked, wiping the foam from his lips with the back of his hand. Setting down the mug, he pulled a vape pen out from under his apron and took a long drag off of it. “Must be that a healthy appetite like yours got you those muscles.”
I came up for air, wiped my mouth with the cloth napkin.
“I missed breakfast,” I said. “Guess I didn’t realize how famished I really am.”
I drank some beer. It was good and ice cold.
“You come from down around Albany?” Sonny went on.
“He’s a writer,” Cora said before sipping on her own cold draft. “A novelist.”
Sonny put his vape device away and exhaled a cloud of blue steam.
“You don’t say,” he said. “What kind of books?”
“Mysteries mostly,” I said.
“I thought we might put some copies of Mr. Kingsley’s books in the tavern, Sonny. You know, like in case of rainy days.”
Sonny gave her a look. I wasn’t sure what to read in the look, but to me, it didn’t seem like he was overly pleased with the idea. Judging by the way his face went tight, I’d say he looked downright jealous. I decided to bury my face in the wonderful stew.
“Tell me something, Mr. Kingsley,” he said after a time, “how long were you planning on staying?”
“Indefinitely,” Cora broke in. “He’s writing a new book while he’s here.”
She drank some more beer, wiped her pretty mouth with the back of her hand.
“He is, is he?” Sonny said. “Could be some good publicity for the inn. A big shot writer penning his new book at Loon Lake Inn where peace and serenity is our motto.”
“And good venison stew, too,” I added.
I guess that’s when Cora decided there was no better time to mention my not so little credit card dilemma.
“Mr. Kingsley’s credit card seems to be out of date, Sonny,” she said. “Maybe we can work something out with him. You know, in exchange for rent.”
Sonny furrowed his brow, and his face turned red. It was like he was reading some kind of underlying meaning in his wife’s idea. Or maybe even like he’d faced this same situation before. He was a lot older than his wife, who was an absolute knockout. He wasn’t exactly Johnny Depp anymore. And he was way out of shape. He had to have known that Cora could do a lot better if she wanted to. He pulled out his vape device again and took a big hit from it. I guess whatever he was smoking helped to calm him down.
“Normally, I’d say no credit card, no cabin,” he said after a long beat. “But if what Cora says is true…that you’re a famous writer or something…it might help with publicity for folks to know you chose Loon Lake Inn to write your next book. We could take pictures of you working and put it up on the website.”
“Wonderful,” Cora chimed in, a cheery smile on her face.
If I didn’t know any better, she seemed awfully eager for me to become a permanent part of Loon Lake Inn. Their main attraction even.
“Not so fast, honey,” Sonny added. “Mr. Kingsley might have some clout as a writer, but food and lodging don’t come cheap, and to be honest, I could use another strong back around here to help with the caretaking.” He vaped away and stared at me. “That is you don’t mind a little man’s work, Mr. Kingsley. You being used to sitting around on your brains all day. Be a shame to waste all those muscles.”
If only he knew the work I did in the prison laundry every morning, day in and day out, he wouldn’t have posed such a smug-ass question. Washing shit, cum-stained bedsheets and pillowcases, the searing temperatures inside the facility, the constant fear of some radical Muslim or Aryan sneaking up on you from behind and shoving a shank in your gut. You had to always be putting those eyes in the back of your head to good use. You had to be aware of everything going on all around you while you busted your ass, shoving linens in and out of those damn machines. I might have told Sonny all about my experience working with my hands in the joint, but my gut was telling me it was better that he not know anything about my past. Not if he planned on letting me live here on Loon Lake for a while.
“You’re right, Sonny,” I said. “But when I was a yo
ung man, I worked construction sites. I also mowed a lot of lawns and shoveled a lot of driveways. I’m no stranger to getting my hands dirty and my brow sweaty. I’d be happy to help out.”
“My wife and I are in the process of buying most of the property along the north side of the lake,” he said, like I should be impressed. “The rest of the property is owned by the state. They allow us access to the trails if we maintain them. Our guests love hiking the trails. It’s the top special activity next to fishing and swimming.”
I finished up the last of the stew and sopped up the rest of the juices with the final piece of cornbread. I popped it in my mouth and washed it all down with my last ounce of beer. I was so hungry, I swear I could have gone for another round of everything. But since I wasn’t paying for anything, I thought I’d best not push the envelope.
“What my husband is trying to ask you, Mr. Kingsley,” Cora said, setting her hand on my thigh, “is would you mind helping him with clearing the trails? It’s tough work. But it can also be fun.”
I nodded. “Sure,” I said. “I’d be happy to. So long as it means I can enjoy more of your terrific home cooking, Sonny.”
“What about you, Mr. Kingsley?” he said. “You know how to cook? We could also use some help in the tavern.”
“Sonny,” Cora chimed in, “Mr. Kingsley is here to write a book. We can’t take up all his time treating him like an indentured servant.” When she squeezed my thigh, I thought I might jump off my stool. “Now, can we?”
She shifted her eyes to mine. Her eyes were somewhat glazed over now that she had a full beer in her. It got me to thinking that Cora was one of those women who changed when she started drinking. She entered into a kind of altered state that, in some cases, brought out the best in people. But more often, it could bring out the worst. In Cora’s case, I was guessing that it brought out her wilder side. Judging by the look on Sonny’s already red face, I could tell he didn’t like her stepping on his toes. He also didn’t like where she had set her hand. She quickly got the message and removed it.
“Not a problem,” I interjected. “I’m no cook, but I know my way around a bar. I can tend at night if that helps. I don’t write at night anyway.”
Sonny smiled. “Great!” he bellowed, issuing a squeaky laugh. He reached over the bar and slapped my arm so hard I thought I might fall to the floor. “You can start tomorrow night. We sometimes get a couple of regulars from Crown Point who come in after fishing.”
Cora slipped off her stool. “Come on, Mr. Kingsley,” she said. “I’ll show you to your cabin.”
“Thanks for lunch, Sonny,” I said.
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “You’re gonna work for it. Trust me.”
I didn’t like the way he grinned when he said it. But then, what the hell could I do? I was broke, and broke men didn’t have a leg to stand on. Then again, what he didn’t know was that my volunteering to bartend meant I could sample the liquor at my leisure. Broke men didn’t have money for booze either.
“By the way, everyone,” I said, “if we’re going to be living and working together, I want you to call me just plain Kingsley. All my friends do.”
What I didn’t tell them was that I didn’t really have many friends anymore. Stan at Lucy’s, and Theresa, of course. But that was about it.
“Okay, Kingsley it is,” Sonny said. “See you ’round five tomorrow night to open the bar for happy hour. I’ll let you sleep in tomorrow morning seeing as you just got here, but the morning after that, I’ll get you at five-thirty in the AM. We hit the trails at dawn.”
Just the mere thought of getting out of bed in the dark filled me with a dread so profound I thought my lunch would come back up on me. But then, I needed to look on the bright side. Just this morning I woke up in the dark on a stiff cot inside Sing Sing. Now, I had a new home on a pristine lake, and by God, if a perfect piece of ass didn’t accompany it. Only thing now was to see how far I could go with that perfect piece of ass without getting myself killed in the process.
I slid off my stool.
“Ready, Cora?” I said.
“Let’s grab your things,” she said.
Her voice was chipper and happy, like my sudden presence at Loon Lake Inn was the best thing to happen to her in ages.
5
I grabbed my bag, my leather coat, and the box of groceries out of the Jeep. Cora volunteered to carry my typewriter.
“A real typewriter,” she said. “You don’t see these much anymore.”
“Most writers like to write on laptops,” I said as we approached a narrow trail that led from the eight main cottages, across the lawn towards the pine woods. “I like to use a typewriter because you feel the words coming out of your fingers while you type them. You feel like you’re a part of the story, instead of just the jerk telling it.”
“That’s a beautiful thought,” she said as we entered under the shady canopy of the forest. “You become a character in your own book. What an intriguing thought, Kingsley.”
We walked the trail for maybe three minutes until we came to another small clearing. Set in the center of the clearing was a cabin that was a little bigger than the other guest cabins. It also had its own access to the lake, including its own little beach. Cora balanced the typewriter on one arm while pulling a key from her pocket. She stepped up onto the small front porch, shoved the key in the lock, and opened the door. Making her way inside, I followed.
It was a compact but pleasant cabin with a fireplace to the right, and to the left, bunk beds were built into the wall. A small table and a couple of chairs occupied the center of the floor. A couch was set before the fireplace.
Toward the back of the cabin, I could make out a kitchenette and even a small bathroom. It was a cozy space not that much larger than a hotel room, but knowing that I no longer had a home or the women who filled it, it looked like a mansion to me…my refuge from the disaster that had become my life.
Cora set the typewriter on the table. Stepping over to the bunk beds, I set my bag, coat, and groceries down on the bottom bunk. Unzipping the bag, I grabbed the ream of blank paper and set that on the table beside the typewriter.
For a beat or two, we both stared at the novel that had yet to be written.
“Now, all I have to do is come up with the words,” I said.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she said. “Geniuses like you always do.”
I hardly knew the woman, and she was calling me a genius. If she was trying to flatter me, it was working. I’d needed an ego boost right around then. When she made her way into the kitchen, I couldn’t help but lock eyes on her ass—the way it was so perfectly packed into her worn Levis. I felt myself getting excited. I was falling hard for Cora. You could almost feel the tension inside the cabin. I knew she had to have been feeling it too.
Opening the small refrigerator, she pulled out two bottles of beer and uncapped them with an opener she pulled out of a wood drawer.
“Beer in the fridge,” I said. “I’ve definitely hit pay dirt.”
She smiled. “I keep a cold six-pack in here at all times,” she said. “I like to come out here when I want to get away from it all and just be by myself.” She paused and stared at the wall like she was looking off into the distance. “Sonny, he can be…”
“You don’t have to explain,” I said. “I get it.” Then, “Oh, before I forget.” I made my way to the bed and grabbed the twelve pack of beer from out of the box, set it on the counter. “For the first time, I feel like I’m contributing something to Loon Lake Inn.”
She stored the extra beer in the fridge. Then she handed me the bottle of beer she’d already opened for me. It felt wonderfully cold in my hand.
“You see it too, huh?” she said. “Sonny is a little rough around the edges.”
For the briefest of seconds, I pictured the stocky, round-faced man. His balding head, his stained apron, his crooked brown teeth. How the hell did a girl li
ke Cora decide to marry a man like him? I guess it’s like they say. Love is blind. But in her case, it was also more than a little messed up.
I stole a sip of beer.
“He treat you okay?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t overstepping my bounds.
When she looked at me askew, I felt the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“Whatever do you mean, Kingsley?”
“I don’t mean, does he hit you or anything,” I explained. “I mean, does he treat a beautiful woman like you the way you should be treated?”
She grinned again, her face turning a distinct shade of red. “You mean like gold, Kingsley?” She gave me a wink.
I pursed my lips, and then drank some more beer.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said.
But let’s face it, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Cora was not exactly enthralled with Sonny. Let me take that back. She seemed to treat him okay. She wasn’t openly hostile toward him. But for God’s sake, she was way above his pay grade. She, on the other hand, could do a hell of a lot better. So what did that tell me? It told me that maybe he had something on her. Something that, if it were ever to get out, could make things very uncomfortable for her. Maybe even dangerous.
Or what the hell, maybe that was just my writer’s imagination kicking into high gear. You know, me looking for a story. Any story.
“He seems like a tough guy, Cora,” I said after a long beat. “Rough around the edges is an understatement. And you seem a lot more—”
“Charming. Sophisticated. Hot…” She took a couple of steps towards me in the already cramped cabin. She drank some beer, wiped her beautiful mouth with the tips of her manicured fingers. “How’m I doing, writer man?”
I felt my stomach cramp and my sex filled with precious blood. I might have even been blushing. I’d only just met this woman and, if I didn’t know any better, she was coming on to me big time.
The Caretaker's Wife Page 4
